


Let Your Arms Become Propellers

by chainofclovers



Series: Intervals in Green [1]
Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 18:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11834169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: Grace and Frankie design a vibrator,or,how *did* Grace Hanson become a breakfast-cooking, Frankie-obsessed, emotionally-tortured vibrator mogul?





	Let Your Arms Become Propellers

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Chilly_Flame for the beta, for asking the right question, for being a stellar sounding board, and for being you. Many thanks to Needled_Ink_1975 for reading in advance, and for being you.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as chainofclovers. In fact, this is the thread that caused me to temporarily put my longer WIP aside so I could write this story: http://chainofclovers.tumblr.com/post/163886579998/it-happened-offscreen
> 
> This story is set between seasons 2 and 3.

“I wasn’t joking about the vibrator business.” Grace had to say that, because they’d laughed and laughed in the car on the way home, and now they were in the kitchen, doing all their regular purse tossing and mail sorting as if they hadn’t just stormed out of a family gathering on a cloud of defiant masturbation and righteous elder womanhood. Frankie was already searching for a snack (they’d skipped out on lunch, after all), and Grace had the sudden, heart-striking sensation that she’d found something that needed gathering, needed tending, that it would break apart forever if she didn’t start right now. If—before snacks and joints and paints and books and salads and drinks got the better of them— _they_ didn’t start right now. 

Frankie, hand stuffed down a box of Cheez-Its, froze at Grace’s voice. “I know,” she said. There was the muffled sound of crackers falling unchosen back into the bag, then her hand came up empty. She set the box on the table and smiled her most lucid and perceptive smile. The sight of it flooded Grace with relief. “What now?”

“Well,” said Grace. “Everything that comes after the idea.”

—

After brainstorming on the beach that night, and after the unexpected scattering of Babe’s ashes, they settled it. In their own way, they were both independent workers, so it was easy to agree: two weeks of individual research, then they’d sync up to start their design in earnest. 

Over the course of the first week, several unmarked cardboard boxes—each addressed to Grace—arrived on the front porch. They were the sort of nondescript containers meant to suggest innocent, innocuous items, like canning equipment or house slippers. In addition to her online purchases, Grace went out and bought a printer, a sleek mid-grade replacement for the one she’d happily given up in her divorce. It came in a box that screamed HP PHOTOSMART. That was a box that left no one guessing.

She divided her time between her computer, her bed, and the world. It was the right balance. She was greedy with her innovation and vision, and was retroactively amazed at herself for getting Say Grace off the ground while there were children in the house.

At first, little changed about Frankie’s patterns, but as the days went on she spent more and more time holed up in her studio, even during the early evening hours she used to spend with Grace. Or Jacob. “Please don’t drop by unannounced,” Frankie said one morning, entirely unnecessarily, during a now rare moment they were both in the kitchen together. It was day nine, and they were picking at the remains of one of the relatively hearty breakfasts Grace had taken to preparing most mornings. Everything always got eaten, whether they ate at the same time or not. “You might spoil the entire concept of individual research.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Grace replied with a smirk, deciding it would inflate Frankie too much if she expressed any curiosity. Besides, any idiot could figure out what “individual research” meant in this context, and Grace had invested far too much energy into not imagining said research in explicit detail to go wandering into Frankie’s studio now. Not on day nine of a fourteen day journey best taken alone. 

But even before vibrator deliveries, before extra studio time, before Grace’s dark night of the soul with Emmanuel from Hewlett-Packard’s 24/7 chat support, there was a change in the house. She’d probably been spending too much time with various Bergsteins, because Grace couldn’t help but think of the change as a layer of energy that had settled atop all the other normal energies of their home. There was a word for the exact type of energy it was, too: orgasms. 

The beach house hadn’t seen this much sexual passion since Robert and Sol had used it for their trysts. ( _And maybe even then_ , Grace thought. _Maybe even then._ ) The house’s staid, predictable days were all in the past. Because she and Frankie were masturbating like it was their job. And it was going to be their job. 

—

Late Saturday afternoon, two weeks to the day, they gathered at the dining room table. Grace was early. She’d hauled the printer downstairs in case Frankie needed to make any printouts. Her laptop was fully charged. At her feet was the old printer box, which now contained several vibrators with homemade modifications; she’d had an hour-long argument with herself over whether to bring them down. She knew every page of the three-ring binder sitting in front of her, but she couldn’t wait to open it again. 

She was completely prepared, completely ready to go. But as she waited for Frankie, palms clammy, stomach fluttering, she wondered just how out of practice she actually was. She’d faced boards of directors, trustees, investors, all sorts of powerful men who underestimated her, who hadn’t even bothered to consider whether they believed she could do what she said she could do. She could handle a one-on-one with a woman she’d known for decades and lived with for three years. A woman who believed in her entirely. 

Maybe that was the difference. But Frankie’s faith in her didn’t make her nervousness go away, and the hedonistic life force flowing through every square foot of the property wasn’t going to calm her down either. 

Frankie was five minutes late and carried only a canvas, which she tucked unsubtly behind one of the empty chairs. 

“Okay,” Grace said, pulling up a spreadsheet on her computer and angling the screen so Frankie could see it. She could start with numbers, the least sexual part of their endeavor. “This is where I’ve been keeping track of expenses. I shared it with your Gmail, but I don’t think you’ve logged on yet?”

Grace could see Frankie make a mental note to recover her Gmail password. “No expenses yet, CFO Hanson.”

“We’ll decide on titles later. Anyway, we’ll need to be really careful with expenses, because we’re both enthusiastic, but it’s important to set clear boundaries between personal and professional finances when you’re self-employed. I’ve calculated how much of my own money I’m willing to spend during the research phase, and moved that into a separate account. I can help you with yours if that’s something you’re comfortable with. Right now there’s only a single sheet in the financial workbook, but we’ll upload receipts for tax purposes because most of these expenses are deductible. I’ll probably hire Robert’s accountant to help us out since the first year is usually the trickiest.”

Frankie squinted at Grace’s expense report. “How many vibrators do you _own_?”

“I own five vibrators.” Grace was proud of herself for not flinching. She opened her binder to a random page: the Smart Wand in medium. Eight-and-a-half inches of high-end silicone. Even without osteoarthritis, it wouldn’t particularly appeal to her, but she could see the attraction it could hold for some. “There’s a vibrator on every page of this binder. These screenshots are all filed online too, and I’ve catalogued the statistics, like length and width, weight where I could find it, anecdotes and reviews, materials, speed settings, volume ratings...” She clicked to a different tab. “It’s all here in this spreadsheet, but I know you’re a tactile learner so I printed it out.” Grace slid the binder in Frankie’s direction. “Here. I think you’ll reach conclusions similar to mine. On average, vibrators are far too heavy and far too unwieldy for long-term use by an older woman.” She grinned at Frankie even though Frankie was already totally absorbed in paging through the binder. “Of course, we already knew that.” 

“I’m in awe of this two-dimensional wonderland, but I’m ready for 3D.” Frankie nudged the box with her foot. “I know they’re in there.” 

Grace rolled her eyes and bent down to haul the box onto the table. 

“You made steampunk vibrators,” Frankie said as soon as she peered inside. “I’m impressed.”

“I know they’re ugly, but they’re only experiments. Very preliminary experiments. Your friend’s knitting needles got me thinking. About—about gel sleeves, obviously, if you look at the pink one over here—but also about easy-open pill bottles, and pull-top cans, all the little hacks we need to bring into this space.” 

“You’re my hero, Grace Hanson.” 

Grace blushed. “How many vibrators do _you_ own?”

“Only two. One vintage, and one more recent purchase.” 

“What do you think about the way they look? Because I don’t like the way most of them look, hideous modifications notwithstanding.”

“That’s where I’ve been,” Frankie said quietly. “I mean, I’ve thought about function, too. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a ‘form over function’ kind of person. But I’m also not a spreadsheet wizard, so I went to a more visual place.” She took a deep breath and pulled the canvas from its hiding spot, propped it up against the printer.

Purple. But not only purple—texture, and curve, and substance. The left side of the canvas was a painting, drawn first in ink, then washed in lavender and orchid. It was recognizable as a vibrator, which was important, but it was softer and stronger and a thousand times more perfect than anything Grace had ever held in her hands. On the right side of the canvas, Frankie had shellacked graph paper covered in small, precise ink drawings depicting vibrators at endless angles. Some of the drawings had zoomed-in sections that showed a button with large text, evoked the supple texture of the shaft. More than any of the other research, the drawings made Grace certain they could find the right materials, create something beautiful and painless. 

“Oh, Frankie.”

Frankie didn’t take her eyes away from the painting. “I had to learn a more scientific style, and that took a while, and then it was fucking with the style I’m using for my art show, so I had to finish a bunch of work for that—”

“My wrist feels better just looking at this painting. You’re _my_ hero.” And there was the smile Grace needed, the smile that told her they needed each other, that Frankie was in this, that she felt it too. “So,” Grace continued. She brushed the side edge of the painting with her index finger. It came away purple. “We have the reality we don’t want and the vision we do. How do we bridge the gap?”

“We make the fridge into a vision board!”

“Or,” Grace said carefully, because she had a few hours of patience left in her, “we could use this poster board to capture our ideas, figure out what we would need to convey to the prototypers.” 

Frankie shrugged and pulled a marker from her pocket. “Okay,” she said, and for a second Grace knew what it would have been like to work on a school project with her. “I’ll start with writing a few things I want our vibrator to do.”

She wrote: 

BEING SEEN  
FEEL KNOWN AND LOVED  
EXCITED  
BUT SAFE

Grace decided not to remark on how the tenses didn’t agree, because there was a bigger question brewing. “What is this?”

“It’s exactly what you said to put. C’mon, Grace, add some,” Frankie said. “What are the parts of sex with someone else that you’d most like to capture when you use a toy?”

She tried to think, but her mind was a big blank, something she never would have let happen in a boardroom full of men. “I don’t know, I hadn’t been thinking in those terms.”

“Maybe don’t write just yet,” Frankie said. “What’s your favorite part of sex?”

“Participation,” Grace blurted, and she knew as soon as she said it Frankie was going to look at her funny. 

“Well, sure, but isn’t that a bit general? We’re both detail people, which is part of what makes living with you so insane.”

“I don’t mean that having sex is my favorite part of having sex.” Grace huffed in frustration. “It’s feeling like you’re part of a club, that you’re wanted.” 

Frankie wrote WAN on the poster, but stopped before she could finish the word. “Like there’s a list of stuff you have to do, and it’s nice when sex is on the list? And even nicer when you can check it off?”

“Well, sort of. You’ll have to forgive me for the unromantic answer. I was married to Robert for forty years.”

“But what about your night with Phil?”

“That was a good night, it really was. It was fun, and guilt-inducing. You know, it was sex. That’s the whole point of masturbation, it’s so different from that. You don’t have to worry about how long it takes, or about your arms flapping, or about a hairy chest making you all sweaty and itchy. It’s just...being filled up, but without all the extra stuff. It’s just a good feeling.”

Frankie wrote A GOOD FEELING, but her face was nothing but worry. Grace was certain her face wasn’t much to look at either. She felt queasy all of a sudden, hot and shaky and uneven, like she was about to get big news and already knew what it was. 

“Grace,” Frankie said, so gentle it was excruciating. She capped the marker and set it down, laid her hand over Grace’s on the table. The gesture didn’t improve the shaking one bit. The marker rolled to the floor. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Grace said. “So you’ve had better sex than I have. You don’t have to feel sorry for me.”

“That’s not how I’m looking at you.” She laced their fingers together, ran her steady thumb against Grace’s jumpy one. “Don’t forget, your husband’s married to mine. Ex-husband. Although I always thought Sol and I had a special connection, in bed and everywhere else, and I still believe we did. I like fluidity and spectrums, not dichotomies. I don’t think Sol is only gay. I don’t think I’m only straight. But maybe, in your case—maybe you’ve been sleeping with the wrong people?”

“I don’t know,” Grace said, although she did. She needed to get out of this conversation. She needed to be in her room, where she could lie on her bed and get lost in the ceiling. Where she could think at her own pace. Apparently, if you were her, everything was better alone. But she couldn’t walk out of their first business meeting, and more importantly, Frankie’s hand tethered her to the room. They’d held hands plenty of times before. Why was this time different? Why did Grace feel like she was about to jump out of her skin? 

Because this time, they were going to kiss. She knew it in the twitch of lightning prickling the back of her neck. She knew it because Frankie scooted a little closer, raised her other hand to Grace’s hair. Grace loved having her hair petted and pulled, loved having her scalp massaged—it was nothing that could go on the vision board, but at least she had an opinion—and she tilted her head into it, let the resulting tingles run down her spine. She had the wild final thought that this was a movie moment, except it was perfectly natural, couldn’t have felt more different from the Oscar-worthy performances she’d used all her strength to summon over the years. But it hadn’t been so awful, performing in that way. She’d participated, she’d been rewarded, she’d even felt something—

From the moment Frankie’s mouth touched hers, the kiss warm and kind, Grace was immediately afraid it would be taken away from her. But Frankie stayed, deepened the kiss when their lips got used to each other. There were no edges in this kiss, nothing to shy away from or think her way out of. It didn’t end until Grace nibbled at Frankie’s bottom lip, which made them both moan. The sound was too real. It broke the spell, and Frankie jerked backward, her hand covering her mouth.

“Fuck,” Grace said. She closed her eyes, leaned back in her chair. 

“I’m the worst girlfriend in the world,” Frankie said. “How do I keep doing this to people? To Jacob. How do I keep doing this to Jacob?”

Grace wanted to open her eyes. She wanted to say something, but she was coming up empty. Finally she found it. “This wasn’t part of my plan,” she said. “My idea for the business. I’m sorry if you did something you didn’t want to do.”

“I didn’t,” Frankie said, firm. “Don’t think that for a second.” 

“We need to be able to talk professionally about the nature of our business. About vibrators, about sex. We have to be able to function.” Grace managed to say this with her changed mouth.

“Yeah. Yes.” Frankie sighed. “I think I need to take a walk. But could we eat together tonight?”

Grace nodded, not trusting herself to say anything more. Frankie paused on her way to the back door, turned her head to watch Grace watching her. “I’m sorry,” Frankie said. The word contained everything.

_—_

Grace was a little drunk when she crawled into bed that night. She’d drunk a bit more than she intended, eaten a bit more than she intended. The whole damn day had a driving principle: More Than Intended. After dinner she’d finally agreed to watch _Spellbound_ , which Frankie had seen five times, and if Grace hadn’t been so focused on keeping to her own couch cushion she might have even enjoyed it. She’d liked Angela, the down-to-earth girl whose vision of winning the spelling bee included an appearance on Rosie O’Donnell. “Angela’s my favorite!” Frankie had concurred, delighted in spite of a subdued demeanor. “She’s matter-of-fact about her dreams.”

Saying goodnight to Frankie had been awkward. Grace was pretty sure she waved goodbye before heading upstairs. She tried not think about that, tried instead to focus on the cool smooth sheets against her legs, the cool smooth water sliding down her throat. When she set her glass down on the nightstand, it was totally empty.

If Grace knew how to do anything, she knew how to play the long game. Without even realizing it, she’d played the long game with happiness for seventy-three years. Now she was bitterly jealous of Jacob, stinging with unreachable love, and casually contemplating whether it would be easier to move to Antarctica than come out to her adult children, but she was happy. 

As was her habit at night, she thought about God thinking about her. She had no idea if it was true. But God made patience. God made vodka. God made vibrators. God made her purple finger, made her ambitious, made her—apparently—good at kissing. God made roommates and friends and ex-husbands and, yes, adult children who probably deserved a second chance. So she might not get to be Frankie Bergstein’s girlfriend until she was seventy-four. She’d just have to survive the wait.

In the meantime, she was seventy-three, and she had a business to run. They. They they they. Grace and Frankie had a business to run.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a line from "One Song For You" by Sleater-Kinney.


End file.
